The warm spell disappeared yesterday and dark, rainless clouds replaced the blue sky.
Yesterday was another day in the garden. The novelty has worn off. I am fed up with weeds. My mother in law, Eve, used to say that she found the process therapeutic. I can’t say that I do. But I like the end result. The roses are starting to bloom in their own garden, which is now weed-free in their honour. The hard work was worth it the end.
It was the same with having children for me. I was rubbish at having them – conceiving and carrying – but I baked nice ones in the end.

I was prescribed bed rest in the first trimester for both children, after I threatened to lose both of them at this critical stage.

In the case of Anna, I was at work when I realised that I was losing her. Geoff was abroad on business in Copenhagen, Denmark, and I was home alone. I rang my obstetrician and he said to go to Harley Street for a scan. I rang Nicky St John at Sothebys; she worked in the Bond Street store. She said she would leave work and meet me for the scan. I later found out she just walked out of the office when she hung up. Then I told my boss in one breath that I was having a baby and may be losing a baby. I was distraught. I then jumped in a black cab.

It was my turn to go into the room where I would find out if I was still pregnant. I lay on the examination table with my heart beating out of my chest. Nicky was holding my hand as the radiographer looked to see if my baby was still viable. After a few seconds she said, “I can see a heartbeat.” Nicky burst out crying and squeezed my hand. She is Anna’s godmother.

Same thing happened with Hugo. I had to tell my boss the same tale. Had to go through the same ordeal of the scan.

When I was eight months pregnant with him we moved to a much larger house in the Abbeville Village, Clapham. (It was where my love for interior design blossomed – more on that later.) I unpacked the kitchen on the first day and, whoosh, my waters broke. Off to St Thomas’s hospital where Mr Ferguson, my consultant, was ready to carry out an emergency caesarean. Both children were breech. Anna was 9lbs 3ozs and I am a slip of a woman!!!

I was taken straight to theatre. Mr Ferguson was all kitted up, with his wellies on! There was a paediatric team ready to go once Hugo was born, in case of problems. (I knew I was having a boy from the scan.) Mr Ferguson explained that when a baby is born at eight months, the lungs can be compromised. Geoff made it just as the epidural was being inserted, with minutes to spare. I shall never forget the look of complete delight on Mr Ferguson’s face when he pulled Hugo out of my tummy. His words: “Nothing to worry about. He’s fully cooked.” He was over 8lbs at 8 months. The tension in the room broke and there were congratulations all around.

I now had two children – healthy and safe – plus a lovely new home. The house needed a lot of work. The roof was leaking and there was damp in places. Some of the windows were rotten. But it had a wonderful bone structure. I was young and energetic. I was up to the challenge.

 

Today I am still at the Old Rectory.

Friday was sunny again. We are having a bonza summer. So welcome. They have been underwhelming for as long as I can remember.

This was not the case, however, for many years after we married. I have a theory. If is hot in May, then it will be a good summer. If it is still tepid in June, it remains tepid.

After gardening for the morning on Friday, I downed tools and went for a swim. Such a luxury! There is nothing nicer than being covered in sweat from exertion, whether gardening or tennis or whatever, and then cooling off. Like a snake shedding skin, you feel that you have lost a layer after being submerged.

I hardly saw water for the first five years of marriage. I was parched. We sometimes went abroad to the sea, but that was it. I was landlocked. A fish out of water.
Once married, it took 7 years until our membership of the Hurlingham Club finally came through, and I had access to water again in the form of the outdoor pool.(The waiting list for Hurlingham is now closed. It is so popular.) By then, Anna and Hugo, very small, were around.

Before that, I was head down in the City working as a solicitor. Just short of a year, I left Barlow, Lyde & Gilbert, as I had a sixth sense that Justin, my boss, may be leaving too. I was right. I went to the ‘other’ boutique insurance firm, Clyde & Co.
When Anna was born, I continued to work four days a week. It was agony handing her over to her Scottish nanny, Yvonne, and heading off. But it was softened by the fact that Emma had also gone back to work for 3 days a week. Yvonne also looked after Issie, who had been conceived at the same time as Anna. Two little blonde, chubby, cherubs together in a double pram, like twins.

Since I had trouble conceiving Anna, I didn’t hang around trying for another. Geoff and I went to Australia to introduce Anna to the relos when she was 14 months. Dad had not met Anna, nor Shaun and Wendy. Mum had flown over to lend a hand in the dead of winter, February 1994, just after she was born. Off we headed to the Great Barrier Reef. A dream come true for me.

 

I shall never forget flying past Cairns and seeing the reef from the window of the plane. It was as if God had strewn opals periodically in the perfect, blue sea.

When Dad clapped eyes on Anna, it was love at first sight for him. Anna woke at 6am. As soon as she was fed, Dad would be there like lightning to take her off for a walk. She was a trooper. She came out to the reef with us. The world below the waterline on the reef was just like the film Finding Nemo, a Bollywood kaleidoscope: of topaz, rose, mustard, emerald, all in neon colour.

It was here that I conceived Hugo. He is an Aussie boy!

Tomorrow it is Bank Holiday Monday and more gardening.

I am back at the Old Rectory. The sun is out! But I can see that it has rained overnight. Phew. As watering the whole garden by hand, by hose, is a big job and I always miss bits.

Yesterday I went for a ladies charity lunch at Steep, which is a stone’s throw from the Old Rectory. The hostess was someone I occasionally play tennis with. She is a very nice pheasant. Her house is idyllic – Georgian – like a doll’s house – with arched, gothic windows, and lilac wisteria growing over the garden door leading down to the terrace. I parked the car on the immaculate lawn, and made my way up to the front door. Drinks were in the hall, large and square. The ladies were older than me and high octane pheasants. I felt that old feeling of being shut outside of the paddock enclosure, with them all milling around inside it.

I was introduced to various pheasants. But all during the event, I had the same sort of conversation. It went like this.

Question: Do you have children?

Me: Yes, two. Anna, 22. Hugo, 20. Ranking stable. Only two children, but at least one of each.

Question: Are they at University?

Me: Yes. Anna graduated from Cambridge last year. Ranking goes up. Hugo is studying chemistry at Warwick. Ranking stable.

Question: Where do you live?

Me: We just moved into an old rectory nearby. Ranking goes up. But we spend some of our time in London. Ranking goes down as we are part timers.

Question: How long have you lived there?

Me: Two years. Ranking goes down as I am new to the country.

Question: Do you play golf?

Me: No. Ranking goes down.

Question: Do you ski?

Me: No, not anymore as I did my ACL (ligament in knee) a few years back. Ranking stable as at least I did ski – once.

Question: And sailing? (We are not far from big sailing waters.)

Answer: No. Ranking goes down.

Question: You’re foreign. Australia or New Zealand?

Me: Australia. Ranking remains stable as at least I am from the Commonwealth.

Maybe this would happen in any new terrain you enter, but it felt prickly. Icky.

The food, however, was delicious and plentiful and the sun shone and I was in a gorgeous location. Can’t complain. I am lucky.

Today lots of gardening as the garden grows as you watch it.

Today was overcast and cold. It was a pity as Mrs Wonderful and I went for a walk on Putney Heath. It was as if we were walking in the country. Wild flowers were growing in the long grass. Domino went troppo (Aussie word for crazy), running around in circles and chasing Willow, Mrs Wonderful’s dog.

Mrs Wonderful showed me the trailer for the wedding video of her daughter’s, and now son and law’s, wedding, which we attended a few weeks’ ago. It was magical. I teased her that before long she’d be a grandmother.

This got me thinking about the conception of my own children. I had always wanted to be a mother. I assumed it would happen without mishap. In the first years of marriage I was far too preoccupied with my career to consider the prospect. I made the decision that we would start a family when I turned thirty. I put the idea on a shelf until that date.

My thirtieth birthday arrived. I was in Rome with Geoff and our friends Greg and Marybeth Hopp. Greg was the hotshot lawyer who worked for the Chicago law firm Justin Codrai, my boss, had engaged to work on behalf of our London clients. At midnight I stepped into the Trevi fountain and kissed Geoff as I slipped into a new decade. It was time to have little Wilmots.

But it didn’t happen. At first I wasn’t concerned. The doctor said it often took time. As the months rolled on, I became slightly hysterical. Then Geoff turned 40. We had a party at Stone House to mark the occasion. Now the pressure of time felt like it was bearing down on us both. At one lunch with his parents at Stone House, I overheard an African guest say to Tony, my father in law, “Why does Geoff not have children, for he is old?” Family is everything to Africans, being the equivalent to status and wealth. I felt gutted. And a failure.

Around this time Geoff and I met a lovely couple, Jim and Emma, and they were also planning to start a family. We became firm friends. We often saw them at church. Just after my 31^st birthday in May 1993, I was due to meet Emma for lunch in the City, as she was a banker. I had found out that morning (at work where I did the test in the Ladies) that I was I was going to be a mother! I was euphoric, but I was dreading telling Emma. After eating our sandwiches in a pretty churchyard off Eastcheap, Emma said, “I have something to tell you. I’m pregnant. I hope you are not upset.” I replied, with a huge grin, “I am too.”

Nine months later, Emma gave birth to Isabella, and shortly after, I gave birth to Anna. Two little chubby, blonde angels. They were both worth waiting for.

Today I have a charity lunch at Steep, near where my country tennis club is.

 

 

The weather today is cloudy, but it is still warm. Summer has not left us.

Yesterday was a perfect day. A blue sky with white, fluffy, lamb clouds. I played tennis with some pheasants at Hurlingham in the morning and then took Domino for a long walk.

At this time of year the daffodils and blue bells have perished, giving way to summer blooms. The gardens at the Hurlingham Club look glorious. The lilac is out – full throttle. The cherry blossom, with its pink candyfloss flowers, is starting to shed like confetti.

In the afternoon I had to go and collect a blind from Battersea and deliver it to a friend in Chelsea; I did a small interior design job for her 10 years ago. The quickest way was over Chelsea Bridge and past the Royal Hospital. Because this is the week of the Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) Flower Show at the Royal Hospital, there was heavy traffic. I didn’t mind. It was lovely to see all the punters leaving the grounds after a day filled with gardens and blooms, dressed in linen suits and summer dresses.

The Royal Hospital is a 66-acre retirement and nursing home for approximately 300 retired British soldiers, non-officer class, who are without spouses or family. It is nestled between the Thames and the Royal Hospital Road. It is no ordinary nursing home; it is architecturally stunning. Sir Christopher Wren designed the Chapel and Great Hall, where the pensioners eat. When they wander around Chelsea, they are decked out in splendid scarlet coats. The Royal Hospital is to Chelsea what the Sydney Opera House is to Sydney. A great landmark. When I finally hit the shops at Sloane Square, many of them had spectacular floral window displays – showing off the British spirit.

Geoff and I were regularly asked to the first night of the show when he was CEO of Centaur Media. The ‘great and the good’ rubbed shoulders at this event – drinking champagne and nibbling canapés – but mainly networking. On one occasion we walked past Margaret Thatcher, long after she had resigned as Prime Minister in November 1990. It was well known that she was suffering from dementia by this stage. Nevertheless, the crowds stopped in their tracks to watch her pass. She was regal and dignified, and commanded the same sort of respect as the Queen.

RHS Chelsea Flower Show is considered to be part of The Season. Historically the Season, from the 17^th to 19^th century, was several months of the year (around when parliament was sitting) when landowning aristocrats came to London to socialise and engage in politics. Young women, debutantes, were presented to the Queen at Court and ‘came out’. Until then, they could not formally attend adult events! The Queen abolished the practice in 1958.  Now the Season is summer festivities dominated by Sloanes, but not exclusively. Off the top of my head, the Season includes: the Oxford/Cambridge Boat race; the Chelsea Flower Show; Polo in the Park (which is in the park of our London house); Royal Ascot; the Tennis Classic at the Hurlingham Club, Cartier polo at Windsor; Wimbledon; Henley Royal Regatta and the Goodwood Festival.

Today I am taking Domino on a new walk on Putney Heath with Mrs Wonderful.

Yesterday the weather was warm and with sunny spells.

Nicky and I set out on an adventure. Her mission was to show me that Dorset – the next county east of Hampshire – had some wonderful beaches – perhaps not surf beaches – but wonderful nevertheless. We put Domino and Tilda, her springer spaniel, in the boot, and off we set.

The first stop was Sandbanks spit in Poole Harbour, which has a chain ferry to Studland, our walking destination. Sandbanks is the Palm Beach of Britain, with the 4^th highest land values in the world. I had never heard of Sandbanks! As we made our way down to ferry, the suburbs gave way to luxury abodes, McMansions. Rick Stein had a restaurant on the high street.

After a short ferry ride, we parked the car in the National Trust car park on the other side and made our way, for an hour, down the beach to Harry’s Rock, ancient formations in the water; they are similar to those found on the Great Ocean Drive in Victoria, Australia, except there are only three of them. On the way, it was rather disconcerting to find amongst the punters, nudists displaying their wares proudly. No modesty here. The message was clearly, “Look at me everybody!” On the ferry home, you could clearly see Brownsea Castle on the island of the same name. The National Trust own the island and there are sweet cottages to rent. Another resolution to go and stay there.

We had a quick look at The Pig – the group of restaurants with luxury rooms at the end of the beach and resolved to come back for a stay.

We then drove closer to the Hampshire border to Mudeford Quay in Christchurch Harbour. There is a passenger ferry which pootles you over to another golden, sandy spit. I was convinced – Dorset has some spectacular beaches.

As we drove home, tired after the fresh air and sun, I felt that summer was really here. Summers are golden times. Songs are devoted to the theme. Songs about holiday romances. Think of Olivia Newton John in Grease, when as Sandy she sings, “Summer loving had me a blast…summer loving happened so fast…”

In my teens I had a huge crush on a boy at Kingsgrove High School called Colin Moody. He was two years my senior and the most eligible boy at school: handsome, clever and a sporting hero. I was friends with his twin sisters Liza and Lindy. I had loved him from afar since day one of starting high school. I looked for him every day. I was sure he didn’t know I existed.

The twins asked me to come camping with the Moody family to a beach, Narabeen, north of Sydney Harbour. It was the December summer holidays and it was day after day of heat and sun. The Beach Boys song Good Vibrations was playing every ten minutes on the radio. Everyone was singing it under their breath.

By then I had two years of school under my belt. Even if Colin didn’t know I existed, I was ecstatic to be at close range to him. Colin had invited his mates from school to stay too. We were all down at the beach after dark, hanging out and mucking around and when we were walking back, I felt an arm slip over my shoulders. It was Colin’s. We were an item for eighteen months. The first bloom of innocent, uncomplicated love. Nothing as sweet.

Today I am back to London.

 

 

It is a sunny start to the day in Hampshire. We travelled back from Glasgow by plane on Saturday. As we were waiting to board, the other plane headed for London was cancelled. The travellers looked gutted. So pleased we were on the other flight. Once you’re homebound, you just want to get there.

It was wonderful to be reunited with Domino and to see the garden at the Old Rectory, revving up for summer. The borders are reaching their crescendo and the rose buds are ready to open. The lavenders have stems and flowers about to open and release their strong scent.

We had a day and night with Peter and Ghislaine in Ayrshire on Friday. They have a magnificent baronial castle on the River Doon. Ghislaine’s forbears built a weir, so the river slows down by the house. This way, you can swim and kayak – in a natural infinity pool.

Peter and Ghislaine are generous in allowing the house to be used, by others, for weddings or special occasions. Just after we left there were wedding drinks for a local couple. The groom was an Aussie, so the bagpipes played Waltzing Matilda.

When Hugo finished Common Entrance aged 13, the test for senior school for boys, he took a group of friends up to inhabit the house and grounds. Ghislaine bought the food and I took over the kitchen, cooking the meals. Not many women I know would hand over the reins lock, stock and barrel to their house. The boys had a Swallows and Amazons time – a contrast to life lived in Chelsea, London – where they had been at school for the previous five years at Sussex House, Cadogan Square, behind Peter Jones. An urban existence.

I am used to their house now, but on my first visit years ago I was overcome by the sheer size and grace of the architecture. The turrets were romantic and the rooms vast and stately. Again I felt like I was in a Jane Austen novel, but set in Scotland. Which Jane never did!

On one occasion we were invited to a hunt at another local, stately home; the one with horses, hounds and a fox substitute. The hunts-people were in scarlet jackets and looked splendid and animated. Staff served nibbles and sherry in silver cups to the assembled crowd and to the mounted hunters.

On another occasion we visited the renovated Dumfries House, a Palladian country house nearby. A consortium headed by Prince Charles purchased the house and the contents in the late 2000s, which included important Chippendale furniture. It is now open to the public. I once sat next to a Marquis (a top title in the hierarchy) at Peter and Ghislaine’s who told me that, as a young man, he used to go to visit the house regularly for dinners and parties. Dinners – black tie of course! The house was then owned by his racing driver friend, Johnny Dumfries. The main family house is Mount Stewart House on the Isle of Bute, which we have also seen. It is vast, in the ilk of the Natural History Museum. Dumfries House was the holiday home, as it was so much smaller!!! The Boswell Book fair, concentrating on biographies is held there. Peter and Ghislaine are very involved. Peter interviews some of the writers.

Today I am off to visit Nicky for a belated birthday treat.

 

 

 

 

Today it is raining, again, in Edinburgh.

I am driving down to Ayrshire to see the Kennerleys. That means going west towards Glasgow, where we will catch a plane back down South on Saturday.

Stan and Bev, my parents, loved Scotland. When they visited us in 1991, we joined them on a tour of the Highlands, before visiting the Loire Valley in France. One thing both Scotland and France historically had in common, in architecture, was their love of the turret and tower. In Scotland this style is know as Scottish baronial. And both countries had strong links to the Papacy. Mary Queen of Scots (1542-1567) was raised in France and was Queen Consort of France for a blink of time, before returning home to Scotland the year after her husband’s death in 1561. Of course, down South in England her cousin Elizabeth I, who beheaded her for treason, was head of the Church of England founded by her father Henry VIII.

Stan the Man loved to drive. He loved to be at the wheel of either a car or a boat. This meant that driving holidays were just that: hours of driving with ‘wee’ time with your feet on terra firma. You had to eat your food and drink your drink at record speed at ‘pit stops’ in order to get back on the road again. Dad had a tight schedule to maintain and we managed to tour the whole of the Highlands in a weekend, including Lochness (no monster seen), the Isle of Skye (home of Richard Corrie’s clan on his maternal side – the Macleods) reached by ferry, Inverness (where Dad bought yet another clock to add to his collection), Balmoral (the Queen’s residence) and back down to Edinburgh.

I remember crossing over a high point in the Highlands and unexpectedly finding snow and skiers whizzing down slopes. Where there was no snow, the bleak landscape was, at times, covered in pinkish/lavender heather. It was a majestic, stirring and melancholic landscape. At times Scots are described as dour, meaning sullen and gloomy. This is unfair in my opinion. I think that Scots are stern, but living in that environment in ancient times must have been testing. And the men wore skirts, which made it doubly tough.

In years to come, we made it to Scotland on several occasions, apart from our visits to the Kennerleys. We had a very wet summer’s holiday in 1993. We stayed in two turreted mansions. The second one was on the West Coast in Kinloch Moidart. We rowed to a small island on the first day, picnicked and played cricket on the beach. The next day, the heavens opened and rain poured down incessantly for the next week. There were a lot of Scots there, but the Scots that were Geoff’s friends did not speak with Scottish accents. Sloane Scots speak the Queen’s English. Nicky St John was there, smitten with John, who proposed not long afterwards.

I can only say that despite the weather, the landscape is endearing and gets under your skin and the people are straightforward, friendly, good and true. Many of our friends, found through Geoff’s first Scottish friend, Emma, have stayed firm friends. We are godparents to some of their children and three out of six of our children’s godparents are Scottish. That says something.

Today is overcast and grey in Edinburgh, but no rain is forecast so I am going to get out and about soon.

I had a pleasant breakfast in the hotel. It was exactly the same as yesterday, except, there were waffles rather than pancakes. It will be the same tomorrow. All over the world, variations of the same breakfast, are being served in hotels.

It was the usual buffet: cooked breakfast (sausages, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried potatoes); continental (cold meat and cheeses); mueslis and cereals; breads and pastries, and fruit and yoghurt. There is something comforting about the sameness of the scene each morning. Day after day guests, from all over the world, partake of the same food. If alone we sit in silence studying our screens or reading a book. The only conversation is with the staff serving tea or coffee and asking whether you would like toast or not. But there is camaraderie in the event. It is a cosy aloneness.

Yesterday I walked the city and looked at the architecture. It is more austere and serious than the architecture of its pretty southern cousin, London. And the sandstone is covered in black soot, a product of years of domestic coal consumption. Weirdly it does not detract from the beauty of the buildings, but matches the steely skies, and Castle Rock, where the castle that dominates the skyline of the city is perched. It is hard to make out from a distance where the rock finishes and the manmade fortress begins. The effect is seamless. It is incredible to think that the castle has been a royal residence since the 12^th century.

In the evening I had a drink at the New Club, housed in a hideous grey building on Princes Street (reminiscent of the utilitarian architecture of Eastern Europe during the Cold War). However, there were ceiling to floor windows, framing spectacular views of the castle, making up for the terrible facade.

Apart from my tour on foot I, mostly, stayed in the hotel, reading and thinking. A break from the routine of home life, in a neutral environment, stimulates the mental juices, allowing one to analyse where one has been in life and where one wants to go.

I had a swim in the hotel pool. I was blissfully alone for a couple of hours, until a gentleman appeared at the top of the stairs. I was in a tiny Jacuzzi at that point and to my horror, yes, he headed straight towards me. As he lowered his hairy body into the gurgling water, I stood up and said, “Perfect timing. My twenty minutes are up.” He looked disappointed. A younger me may have suffered and made polite conversation with the stranger. The current me could not tolerate one second of sharing the same water with him. Off I trotted to the changing room.

So off I go to enjoy my last day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The weather in Edinburgh is grey, wet and cold this morning.

Last night dinner was in the hotel, The Caledonian, in the Galvin Brasserie, which is the more relaxed of the in-house restaurants. I had grilled lobster – delicious – and a good size. Not as huge as the ones you get in Oz, but not as small as the tiny one Dad was served in a Scottish restaurant 27 years ago.

My first visit to Scotland, with Geoffrey, was in 1989, so getting on to 30 years ago. My friend Ghislaine invited me to stay at her brother’s house in Ayrshire. I previously told you that her brother is a baron, inheriting the title at a young age from his grandfather in 1985. He served as a Conservative politician in the House of Lords for many years and eventually reached the top job, Leader of the House. But back then he was just a young baron starting out in politics. And a bachelor with a girlfriend, now his wife.

I didn’t know what to expect at all. I was not prepared for the sight of the family house. To me it looked like a palace. There was an impressive bridge spanning the River Ayr that led to the sweeping driveway. I felt like a character in a Jane Austen novel. I wasn’t just Joe Public on a paid tour. I was a guest! As it happened it was a relaxed weekend as the houseparty was “young”. The Kangaroo didn’t cause any damage. So we cooked and went for walks. Played tennis. Sat on the grass in the sunshine. There was no staff. Ghislaine pulled things out of the freezer to warm up for meals. I do, however, remember sitting in my ancient bedroom and looking out onto the courtyard behind the house, with stables and cobblestones. I imagined bygone times when, in the absence of cars, carriages would have brought privileged guests for grand dinners.

I only made it to Edinburgh for a stay about 10 years ago (I flew here in 1990 to do a Highlands tour with my parents, but did not linger). Ghislaine was living here then with her husband, Peter, in a top floor flat with views to the coastline of Fife. Peter was working for Scottish & Newcastle, a brewing company. They spent their weekends in their own house in Ayrshire. We did some of the sights together. The castle overseeing the city from its great rock; contemporary art at The Royal Scottish Academy of Art and Architecture – worth visiting; Holyrood Palace – the Queen’s residence; Princes Street (the premier street) and the Old Town. I made it back a couple of years ago to the Edinburgh Festival, with Geoffrey and Hugo. Ghislaine’s son was performing with the Durham Review – a brilliant production of short skits – 3 men and 3 women.

So today I will have a wander and reacquaint myself with this ancient city.